


The Boy in the Cauldron Under the Stars

by paintpuddles



Series: Harry Potter and the Flurry of Ficlets [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Based on a Tumblr Post, Canon? what Canon, Dad Hagrid, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Gen, Get Hagrid Some Tags, Hagrid FTW, Hagrid is a Good Dad, Hagrid is the Real MVP, Happy Ending, Harry Potter was Raised by Other(s), Harry is raised right, Hogwarts, Inspired By Tumblr, Love, No Angst, The Dursleys can Get Lost, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, True Love, are pigs flying yet, blame Tumblr not me, canon? never heard of her, feels literally everywhere, honestly bring a toothbrush you’ll need it, someone must have slipped me happy pills, this is basically just a happy fluffy fic :), wow I actually wrote an angst-free fic I'm legit shocked, you cannot tell me that Hagrid is not a parental figure for Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 00:24:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21109649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintpuddles/pseuds/paintpuddles
Summary: Hagrid looks down at the small, sleeping baby cradled in his arms. His button nose is rose red, his cheeks are petal pink; the night around them is cold and sharp and unforgiving, like a blade hovering above the exposed throat of this tiny, perfect child.Hagrid looks again, at the plain stone step that Headmaster Dumbledore had pointed to. This step is cold, too, and hard, and Hagrid thinks that only the most hardy and world-worn of beasts could sleep on that step.Not a baby. Never a baby.So Hagrid looks again at this empty, uncaring stone step, and then the slumbering infant in his arms, and he thinks that no, this is not the proper care of a very precious magical creature. This shall not stand.So he does something he's never done before: he tells Headmaster Dumbledoreno.





	The Boy in the Cauldron Under the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> This was heavily inspired by a Tumblr post that went something along the lines of:
> 
> “Everyone says Sirius Black was like Harry’s dad but can we take a moment to realise that Hagrid went to Harry’s Quidditch matches and cheered him on and rescued him as a baby and gave him photos of his parents and made him cookies and was basically the best so wtf fandom why are we always ignoring Hagrid, who was clearly Harry’s dad.”
> 
> And I was honestly mindblown but suddenly couldn’t agree more.
> 
> So yeah. Hagrid is the real MVP and y’all should appreciate him more.
> 
> (If you want to find the post, just google "tumblr hagrid is Harry's dad". Loads of awesome posts come up that make some really great points and made me reconsider a lot.)

Hagrid looks down at the small, sleeping baby cradled in his arms. His button nose is rose red, his cheeks are petal pink; the night around them is cold and sharp and unforgiving, like a blade hovering above the exposed throat of this tiny, perfect child.

Hagrid looks again, at the plain stone step that Headmaster Dumbledore had pointed to. This step is cold, too, and hard, and Hagrid thinks that only the most hardy and world-worn of beasts could sleep on that step.

Not a baby. Never a baby.

Hagrid might not know much, but he does know how to care for almost every creature imaginable. He knows every tentacle of the Giant Squid, knows the best way to speak to the prickly centaurs, even knows and loves the many legs of the illegal, bloodthirsty acromantula. One rule that spans across almost every species there is comes down to this:

The young must be cared for. Intently, cautiously, unendingly. They must be guarded and protected, fed and sheltered, taught and nurtured. The young are vulnerable, and weak, and infinitely precious, and they should never be abandoned or ignored.

They should never be left behind.

So Hagrid looks again at this empty, uncaring stone step, and then the slumbering infant in his arms, and he thinks that no, this is not the proper care of a very precious magical creature. This shall not stand.

So he does something he's never done before: he tells Headmaster Dumbledore _no_.

'This ain't right,' Hagrid says nervously, uncomfortably, firmly, immovably. 'We can't just leave 'im 'ere. I won't leave 'im 'ere, Professor.'

It's polite. Respectful. Steadfast. Certain.

Headmaster Dumbledore pauses, taken aback. Professor McGonagall is equally surprised, but she finds her words quicker.

'I agree,' she says stiffly, her eyes slicing over the hard brickwork of a cold home. 'This is no place for a child.'

Hagrid swells up, bolstered by the Deputy Headmistress' approval of his rebellious actions, and clutches just a little more tightly to the bundle of blankets in his arms.

'He will be safe here,' Headmaster Dumbledore says softly, his fingers fiddling with the envelope he holds in his hands. 'His mother's blood wards will protect him.'

'He will be unhappy here,' McGonagall retorts angrily, an invisible, incorporeal tail swishing through the air behind her as fur that isn't real bristles on her skin. 'These _people_... they are _intolerable_. He cannot be left here. It would be _cruel_.'

'We can protect him, Professor,' Hagrid adds before Dumbledore can even open his mouth to speak. Dumbledore's silvery-white eyebrows rise up his old, wrinkled face. He did not anticipate this dissent amongst his most trusted ranks. 'We can keep him safe.'

'And where, exactly, would that be, Hagrid?' Dumbledore asks quietly, but he already knows the reply he is going to get.

'Hogwarts,' Hagrid says firmly. His mind is already made up, as is McGonagall's. There is very little - perhaps nothing at all - that Dumbledore can say to change their minds.

'Who shall raise him?' Dumbledore asks - but again, he already knows the answer before it is even spoken.

'We will!' Hagrid announces with such iron surety that Dumbledore's lips twitch into a smile. 'I mean, er, I will, if yer not wanting to, Professor M-'

'We will,' McGonagall interrupts, offering Hagrid a warm, genial smile. She eyes Hagrid critically for a moment, wondering if such a large, blundering man could possibly be entrusted with the care of a such small, fragile child, but her beady gaze lingers on the careful way in which Hagrid cradles the baby close to his chest, and how his large hands support young Harry's head, neck and torso.

And she thinks that Hagrid may be big and blundering and oblivious at times, but he is also kind-hearted and brave and _good_. And he would _love_ Harry.

What more could she ask of him than love?

Dumbledore, too, is analysing Hagrid, but he is also considering Minerva in a new light. He watches the pair without judgement or criticism, already anticipating the swift, easy way with which they shall both take to parenthood. Hagrid has never before been blessed with a child, but Minerva has. Minerva has, and she lost that infinitely precious child, and she carries that pain with her like a second skin. 

It's hidden there, in her face and dark eyes, buried in her actions for all to see if only they would look. It lingers in the way Minerva watches over all of the children under her care with the ferocity of a nesting dragon. She is strict, and firm; unyielding in her passion but sometimes harsh and unforgiving of reckless mistakes. The children would understand, if they knew; they would see the love and logic behind every ruthless reprimand they receive when they dive headlong into danger without looking twice. 

Minerva cannot bear to lose another child. It would kill her. Hagrid, too, would be inconsolable with grief. 

Perhaps small, innocent Harry Potter would be safe behind the blood wards of his mother in Number 4 Privet Drive, but as Dumbledore runs thin papery skin over thick parchment, and looks again at that cold doorstep, and then to two of his closest companions, he thinks that just maybe, maybe, if they were careful, and cautious, and didn't make too many mistakes... Harry could be safe at Hogwarts too.

So they take him, and don't look back.

~

Harry grows slowly at first, stubbornly remaining small and chubby-faced for as long as he possibly can. Hagrid says that he is merely a dragon hatchling learning how to break out of his shell, and that he'll do it in his own time. Dumbledore says he is a diamond in the making, buried deep beneath earth and rock but shifting, forming, coming into being.

McGonagall says he is just as laidback as his father and carefree as his godfather, and that frankly it'll be a miracle if they ever motivate him at all.

(She says it with a smile dancing across her tight, thin lips, and a hearth of warm fondness crackling merrily in her heart, but no one calls her on her pretence of indifference.)

But once Harry begins to straighten out and sprout, soaring up like he's reaching for the sky with invisible wings, he can't seem to stop. Pomona calls him her little sapling, and says that the strongest trees take time to put down their roots, but now that he has he may finally bloom bright and unstoppable. Filius says he must be Charmed to stretch whenever the Professor turns his back, for Harry seems to gain an inch every time Flitwick so much as blinks. 

Poppy fusses over every bump and scratch and skinned knee, and is cajoled and sweet-talked and manipulated into kissing cuts better more times than she can count. The strict matron never seems to mind, though, and when Harry gets stretch marks as innumerable as freckles, Poppy fusses and fawns and whips up potions and pastes to magic them all away.

Severus says nothing, as expected, but when Harry stumbles and trips and falls face-first onto hard, unforgiving stone, Severus doesn't smirk or sneer or smile vindictively. There is no malicious pleasure taken in the tears or cries of an orphaned child, and when Harry falls down the stairs and nearly cracks his head open, Severus is there, hovering behind the small crowd of concerned onlookers. He does nothing - there is no comfort or caressing or outward signs of caring - but perhaps it is most telling that Severus does nothing at all. For a man famed for his vicious, cutting insults, he never seems to use them on Harry. 

Perhaps, in the end, it is not what Severus says, but what he _doesn't_ say, that reveals his true colours beneath the all-encompassing black.

Albus, in turn, is there for Harry, in the form of a guiding hand and mysterious words trussed up in riddles that become a source of both entertainment and endless frustration. Albus is both vexation and voracious curiosity; Harry spends hours unravelling the tricky turns of his words and parsing the true meaning beneath. He learns all the Slytherin traits straight from the mouth of a Gryffindor: obfuscation, misdirection, manipulation. It is harmless, and dangerous, just like Albus himself, but in the end Harry is a better man for knowing how to talk his way out of any situation as vaguely and benignly as possible. He learns knowledge of a different kind, there, in Dumbledore's office - certainly of a different variety than what Albus intended - but it serves him well, especially when he gets caught sneaking into Honeydukes.

And there is Minerva - of course there is Minerva - giving Harry chores and homework and reprimands; teaching him manners and proper etiquette and respect. She drills polite, responsible mannerisms into his brain, and quizzes him on spellings and pronunciations and which fork to use first; when Harry backtalks and misbehaves and throws a temper tantrum, it is Minerva's sharply quirked eyebrow and unimpressed glare that he has to meet. Her tongue can be as quick and burning as fire - especially when he sneaks a broom out of Hooch's shed and goes zipping across the school grounds like a snitch set free - but a fierce telling off is not all that the Deputy Headmistress ever gives him.

Minerva is there for the mistakes, and the confusion, and the painfully slow learning that every child must undertake. She gives him advice, and endless help, and she makes him _better_. Harry doesn't know it, when he's five and his backside is Charmed stuck to his very own naughty step, but when he's grown tall and mature and sees the world through clear eyes, he'll realise that so many of the best parts of himself were shaped by the firm, steadying hands of a woman whose love was hot and burning and true. 

Yes, she had faults - and so too does he - but there is goodness there, in the unfaltering dedication to what is right, and his lack of fear in saying what is true and must be said, and in the firm set of his shoulders when the world turns against him but he remains set on his course anyway. Minerva was not a woman easily swayed or beaten or overcome, and neither now is Harry - a man with both integrity and iron in his heart, bravery in his blood and brilliant eyes that shine green and intelligent like his mothers'.

Finally, there is Rubeus Hagrid.

Rubeus does not know how to heat milk with a spell or Charm the carrots to cut themselves. Rubeus cannot ride a broomstick, or play chess, or conjure fantastical illusions made of fire, or do so many other things considered of so much utmost importance to boys of a smattering of years. Rubeus will never be able to play clever pranks, or cast a Patronus, and he will never be James Potter, and the evidence of such is laid clear and bare and blatant every day of Harry's life.

But. 

But there is love. Rubeus can _love_.

And he does.

Rubeus may not have a wand, but he has a mind and two hands made of perseverance and strength, and a hearth that burns merrily with cozy fire. Rubeus may only have a half-giant body but he has a whole-giant heart. So he heats the milk in a metal mug over flames, and he peels and slices all of the carrots by hand, hunched over on a barrel or wooden stool. Rubeus laughs and teaches a young Harry to ride Fang, and later Buckbeak and the thestrals, and lets him play catch with the Giant Squid and hide and seek with the centaurs. 

Rubeus does not need to conjure pretty illusions for Harry, because everything he shows and gives him is _real_, and is perhaps all the better for it. In a world filled unendingly with wondrous magic that makes Harry feel like he can soar, Rubeus is the one to bring Harry back down to Earth, and teaches him to like it there. There is fun, yes, to be found in the great big blue sky, but the real wizard is one who creates magic in the mundane, and finds awe in the ordinary. Mighty magic may bring Harry glory and adventure, but it is the simple things learned in a hut and its garden that bring Harry peace.

And there will never be a Patronus from the end of a wand that is now snapped - but there doesn't need to be. There is no glowing white spell here; no mystical fantasy or mysterious power... _but there is love_. The magic may be missing but the happy memories required are not. They are boundless and numerous and brilliant; so many laughs shared and soft marks left on open hearts. There is warmth, and affection, and devotion, and _it is enough_.

And were Rubeus Hagrid to ever take up his wand again, or perhaps that battered pink umbrella, and summon forth that infamous Patronus spell, he has no doubt as to what would appear from the tip of his wand or the palm of his hand or the depths of his heart: a small, skittering, scoundrel of a thing; a mischievous, innocent, bright-eyed fawn, silver-white and skinny, splattered with spots and soft fur. It would be so dazzlingly bright, because there would be a million memories to fuel it, and it would be beautiful and perfect and it would be Harry.

Rubeus Hagrid is not James Potter, but he does not try to be. In the end, he never really had to. There is no competition, when it comes to true love; there is no racing or fighting or picking-and-choosing of favourites. This is love, and it is everywhere Harry looks: in the rock-hard cookies on his plate, and the patchwork quilt on his bed, and his dad's gentle pat on his head.

Rubeus Hagrid may be average - perhaps even less than - but he does something momentous and magnificent every day: he holds to patience when he is mad; he remains unfazed when chaos reigns; he gathers faith when doubt has spread; he defends his son when rumours riot; he stays standing strong when others won't. He is a touchstone, a foundation, a pillar; the star guiding North and the light leading home.

Rubeus Hagrid will never save the world. He will never lead a war nor end one; he will not preach to the masses and inspire their action. Rubeus Hagrid is nobody at all... but to those that know him, those rebels and prodigies and heroes that learn his name and feel his love... to _them_, he is so much - almost everything - and it is he who leads and inspires and encourages them. Behind every hero is their mother; behind all revolutionaries stand their friends. And behind Harry Potter is the Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts, a hero in his own little way; a saviour to lost bowtruckles and injured kneazles and children starving for compassion.

Rubeus Hagrid does not save the world. But he changes those who change it, and he saves those who save it, and sparks the fight in those who fight for it. 

He gives a home to a boy that was left all alone.

Rubeus keeps his promise, and he keeps Harry safe, and he makes Harry happy.

And that is perhaps the most important thing anyone could ever do: love their child.

It is what Rubeus Hagrid does. Always.

~

In the beginning there was a tiny boy in a half-giant's arms. There was a cold, stone step upon which he was to be left.

In the meandering middle there was a boy in a cauldron under the stars. There was laughter ringing in the midnight summer air as his father pointed to each carefully constructed constellation.

In this everlasting ending, there is a man cradling his young son in his arms. He loves this vulnerable, fragile, infinitely precious little child, and he does it almost perfectly, because he learned his whole life how to do so from one of the very best. And so it goes, in a cycle that lasts until the edges of forever: a father wrapping his son in his arms and in blankets and in love.

There is no cold, hard step. There is a warm, soft bed, and gentle, soft kisses, and happy, soft laughter from a boy that _knows_ he is safe and cherished and **loved**.

**Author's Note:**

> Did anyone else get really sad the moment they realised Hagrid could never cast a Patronus because his wand is snapped? ;-; Sad times.
> 
> It also raises questions about why the fuck Dementors were allowed anywhere near Hogwarts when not even all of the staff could protect themselves (Hagrid could’ve been killed!!!!!), _but that’s a rant for another day._
> 
> **If there’s a particular scene/moment/quote you really loved or is your favourite, PLEASE LET ME KNOW!!! I love getting feedback so that I know what/how to improve! :) **
> 
> Thank you for reading, you wonderful witches and wizards. I think you all have a little magic in you.


End file.
